I treat myself to a latte
once a week
Fridays
It is a ceremony
It must be an atmosphere befitting
ritual and reverence
a place I can linger with my
cup and my thoughts
The cup must be ceramic
of a certain weight and heft
and with a handle big enough to fit three or four fingers through
No wimpy china and certainly,
no paper
I prefer the baristas who take care with my treasure
perhaps swirling the foam, forming a delicate leaf
or heart on top
I nod in gratitude, tip liberally
I take my latte and
maybe biscotti or a scone
sit in a corner
watch the steam curl from the cup
Timing is everything
Not too soon; singed tastebuds will miss the ecstasy
The first sip is a blessing
I do not read or talk
during the ceremony
I must drink slowly enough to
savor
every
sip
but not so slow that the liquid gold
cools to tepid before I finish
The last sip is a prayer
Sometimes I lick the foam that clings to the side
of the cup
before I return it to the counter
I push in my chair
pull on my coat
walk slowly out into another week
